Warwork

This title story was written long before the terrorist attack on the World Trade Center of September 11, 2001, but when looking at the story I realized there were certain elements in common and so thought fleetingly-very fleetingly-of changing it to fit the new reality. However, this is a different story, so I had to leave it the way it happened.

Arthur Fenzell was told by the receptionist at finance that he would have to pick up his final paycheck at personnel. Dickerson, the second assistant deputy chief, dispensing with the severance lecture, just shrugged and handed him the envelope. Coming off the express elevator, Fenzell strode briskly across the marble floor and pushed his way through one of the revolving doors. A great deal of space wasted in that lobby, Fenzell thought; in a few years someone in a high position would see the light and the space would be subdivided and leased. He always saw these things, and he was always right.

Outside, he rambled across a court of considerable dimension, set here and there along the walkways with backless concrete benches and dwarf trees. The trees were skeletal, leafless this time of year.

Midwinter, yet the day was mild. Fenzell tucked the belt ends of his trenchcoat into the pockets and let the front flap loose. Reaching the public sidewalk, he turned back for a moment to look up.

He saw a forty story tower of steel and glass, architecturally described as "lean and clean." In a small city such as this it stuck up like a giant dick. Built fifteen years or so in the past, in an era, at least locally, of economic optimism, it was unlikely it would be put up today. There was nothing done in there which could not be done as well in a complex of one and two story structures, built inexpensively of block, situated somewhere at the edge of town. Housing the home office of a huge insurance firm, the building was a monument to the corporate spirit. "---- you, Fenzell," the building said. "You ain’t ----."

He heard another voice at his left shoulder. "Well, Art . . ."

"Oh, hi, Denny," Fenzell answered.

"How goes it?"

"I suppose you heard," Fenzell said.

"Yeah. I heard."

"Well, I quit! I beat them to it."

"Jesus, Art . . ."

"You know what I was up there?"

"Administrative assistant."

"A -------ed office boy!"

"Art, for Christ’s sake . . ."

"The ------- bureau chief is a punk kid. That’s who I’m supposed to be an assistant to. The head of the whole ------- department . . . you know MacArthur?"

"Yes," Denny said.

"I went to high school with the son of a -----," Fenzell said.

"I know that. I was only a year behind you guys myself."

"He was an -------."

"Sure, Art. But . . ."

"He’s still an -------."

"You mean he didn’t play football."

"Football? That wimp? Dumb ------- too. ----, I was dean’s list. Well, one year. Besides that, he’s a draft dodger. When I was in Nam, he was in grad school."

"Things change," Denny said.

"Tell me about it."

"You had lunch?"

"No," Fenzell said.

"Come on. I’ll buy."

"I want a drink," Fenzell said. "Riley’s?"

Denny nodded. "Jorling just about made that job for you," he said.

"You don’t have to tell me. He was still alive, I’d be the first to tell him I’m sorry."

"You were highly thought of."

"Denny, I’m sorry. Okay? I’m sorry."

"Yeah." He took Fenzell’s elbow and started to turn. "Well, the way things are . . . the war in the Gulf, I mean. Some of the old companies in town are suddenly getting some big contracts. I hear all kinds of things about it. Fleming is looking to take on about a hundred people. And that’s just the beginning. There might be something . . ."